A Cradle, A Coffin, A Wolf Among the Sheep
by Cinderlei
Summary: John never dreams of himself, but always of the same, other, man. He may have finally met him. Takes place just after ASiP, but will extend to the end of S2. Also includes an adaptation of "The Sign of Four." Rated for drug references, language.


A CRADLE, A COFFIN, A WOLF AMONG THE SHEEP

Title from "A Dream" by ThouShaltNot.

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.  
Written for Sherlock Kink Meme on LiveJournal.

* * *

I

The dream comes back his first night spent at Baker Street. In the dream, he stood in Trafalgar Square after dark, waiting, watching. He checked his phone. They were late. He was agitated.

A woman passed on the opposite side of the fountain. She walked quickly, she had a destination; she kept checking her watch, she was tardy to said destination. She wore lipstick in bright red and clean jewelry. A date, then. First date, by the nervous crease across her forehead where her eyebrows were knitted together in anxiety. First in both ordinance and also first in a while, probably, otherwise she wouldn't have forgotten (because it's obvious now by her intermittent but very clear bouts of hesitation that she did forget and is wrestling with the notion of even showing up).

He checked the time on his phone again, and was disappointed that only two minutes had passed. He had other things to be doing, a nagging in his gut that urged him to go home and attend to other, arguably more important matters.

The car pulled up to the curb, and the driver stepped out to open the door for him. He slid into the leather seat next to the assistant. She was very busy with her phone.

"We apologize for the slight delay," Anthea said, thumbs continuing to work.

"The Libyan government just launched a counteroffensive against its protesters. Traffic must be a nightmare," he replied.

She did not answer.

The dream fades away cleanly as John wakes. His mind tries to grab at the images to retain them like memories of all other stimuli it processes, but it is only partly successful. He remembers Anthea. (_Of course I would dream of her. Pathetic._) He remembers being in the square, looking at the National Gallery. He remembers the waiting, and the oddly specific line about Libya and the traffic. Last night's events are a lot to process, and he is pretty sure his new flatmate had said something along that line. That must be it. Nothing more.

He trudges down the stairs to the kitchen and sees Sherlock, fully dressed, hunched over the microscope. He's suddenly unsure whether or not it's acceptable for him to be in pajamas this late in the day.

"Good morning," says Sherlock, before the doctor can turn around to go back up the stairs. He doesn't look up.

"Is it still morning?" John steps onto the kitchen's linoleum and wishes he had the foresight to wear socks.

"For now. I trust you slept well?" He rotates a more powerful objective into place.

"Er, fairly. Pretty rough night. Was out 'til about three or so with a strange man all up and down London, chasing a serial-murdering cabbie."

"At least you were polite enough to stay 'til morning," remarks Sherlock with a smirk, and John chuckles.

He did not get a chance to look at the kitchen properly the previous evening. The rectangular table in the middle of the room is hopelessly cluttered with lab equipment. There is a refrigerator and a microwave, and a toaster tucked into the corner. Every inch of counter space is occupied by a piece of lab equipment: a set of petri dishes here, a clamp with a burette there. A rather large glass object is collecting dust in the corner, and he is pretty certain that it's an antique alembic.

"D'you drink coffee?" he asks.

"Occasionally."

He glances around the kitchen again. "Do you have a coffee maker?"

"It's a piece of equipment I don't use regularly; It would create unnecessary clutter." Fiddles with the focus.

John looks very pointedly at the alembic, and makes a mental note to purchase a presspot.

He returns to the kitchen a while later, having showered and dressed. He finds himself continuing to favor one leg, and tries to correct himself now that he knows for certain that it can go away. Sherlock has moved from the microscope, now working carefully with a pipet to prepare a new slide.

"Listen, I don't mean to pry," says John, "but the whole…drugs bust thing yesterday."

Sherlock places the pipet in a stand and stares at the doctor.

"I don't—um—care, really, about what happened before or details or anything. I just want to know if…if it tends to be a, um, _ongoing _problem." He isn't sure of a less obtuse way to ask the question, but it's something he needs to get off his mind before it festers into paranoia.

The detective answers immediately. "The only reason that Lestrade feels like he can hold that over my head is because he helped keep me out of prison on more than one occasion. That was years ago. Water under the bridge. It's not something you need to be concerned about."

John nods. "Good. Very good."

He sits down at the desk and opens his laptop. Memories of last night are still flashing through his mind. He wants to write them down before they lose their edge. Besides, his therapist wants him to blog. Blog, he will.

"Cocaine, mostly."

"Sorry, what?"

Sherlock is working with the pipet again and speaks softly. "You were wondering what I used. Sometimes morphine, but most often a solution of cocaine."

John is unsure how to respond. He _was_ curious—of course he was curious—but his companion's frankness on the matter is unexpected. When speaking to his sister about her own addiction, she does everything imaginable to change the subject, transforming a light conversation over coffee into an up-tempo foxtrot around the situation.

"Thank you," he says. Sherlock hums in response, gazing once more into the microscope.

He remembers a dream of sitting in a soft chair, rolling his sleeve up, and inserting a needle into the crook of his elbow. The rush came much sooner than he expected. John is surprised that he remembers the dream this sharply; that was years ago, before he enlisted. He had just begun his studies at St. Bartholomew's, and the feeling had disquieted him more than it would have. He was concerned what being around the needles would do to him, afraid that he would find himself sneaking off with a syringe to sink into his own chair and contemplate where in his own elbow the best target would be. The elbow in the dream was definitely not his own. He never dreamt about himself.

When he hears footsteps on the stairs, he realizes he has been staring at the blank textbox for too long. Mrs. Hudson appears on the landing with a tray of sandwiches.

"Good morning, boys!" she chirps. "I didn't realize you were having company over today, otherwise I would have cleaned up a bit!"

"I'm sorry, I don't know what you mean, Mrs. Hudson."

She picks up a stray newspaper from the chair and looks at the doctor in puzzlement. "Why, there's a lady downstairs that would like to speak to you two! She's _very_ pretty, if you ask me. I think she would make a _lovely_ mother."

"Send her up," says Sherlock, with a short smile.

"Who's coming?" John asks the detective after Mrs. Hudson departs.

"A client, obviously. Or a proselytizer. Maybe both. You should stay; I can always benefit from another set of ears," he adds when he sees John shift in his chair.

John sits back down at the desk, but closes his laptop. He argues with himself about whether or not to actually believe his new flatmate, but his room is all the way up the stairs, and the chair's rather comfortable, and damn him if there's a part of him that is desperate to know if every night of Sherlock Holmes' life is as interesting as chasing cabbies around London.


End file.
